


counterbalance

by unholyconfessions (orphan_account)



Series: salt in the wounds [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Secret Relationship, Set During 5.12 - Damnatio Memoriae, Set Pre 5.13 - Codominance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5997637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unholyconfessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hits the floor with a muffled thud, almost laughs as a wave of déjà vu consumes him. Leave it to him to get the short end of the stick. </p><p>[sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5699518">absolution</a>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	counterbalance

**Author's Note:**

> Eep. This is getting harder to write as it goes on. I'm trying to keep it as canon-compliant as possible, but there's only so much I can do.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy it nonetheless. Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Happy reading! :-)

“The real conflict you’re having now is between your head and your heart,” his dad told him the night before, after Stiles confessed about wanting to end Donovan’s life before his own was even in danger. Stiles silently agreed, yet a part of him still felt the consequence of the kill.

Not guilt, no—more of an awareness that he’d wanted to do it, that his mind had spiraled into an abyss so dark that he lost a part of himself in it.

They have a problem bigger than Theo, now. 

The Beast of Gévaudan is a coldblooded killer, not an arrogant teenager with a crooked moral compass and delusions of grandeur. It’s ruthless and merciless, and they haven’t exactly gotten an advantage over it like he has with Theo.

Not when Lydia’s locked up in Eichen House, Kira’s gone off on some kind of spiritual healing trip with her mom, Malia doesn’t even want to be in the same room as him, and Scott—well, that’s complicated.

He’s got Scott back, but not completely. 

It’s clear in Scott’s gaze—as they venture underneath the power station after the Beast, which in hindsight will turn out to be a pretty bad idea—that their friendship hasn’t mended back. It has scars that’ll only heal with time, but Stiles isn’t sure he even _wants_ them to heal, because if he’s being honest with himself, Scott hasn’t gotten him back completely either. 

Not like Theo has. 

Theo’s got him in a weird, twisted way and, while Stiles doesn’t trust him completely, not yet, he likes his chances with Theo better than with Scott—even if a member of his pack did just paralyze Stiles from the neck down.

Stiles hits the floor with a muffled thud, almost laughs as a wave of déjà vu consumes him. Leave it to him to get the short end of the stick. At least now he didn’t get a chest full of Derek.

Scott is a little slow on the uptake. He trades blows with Tracy and Donovan before it dawns on him, but as soon as it does, the muscles on his shoulders roll back and fall.

Scott’s fangs retract and his eyes go from red to brown. “What did you do?”

“I found some new friends,” Theo says as he makes his grand entrance, the sound of his footsteps close to Stiles’ ear. “I don’t take rejection well.”

Stiles is almost hoping Theo doesn’t acknowledge him, but when he does and their eyes meet for a long second, he feels obligated to at least say, “Hey, Theo.”

It’s not flattering, Stiles’ spot on the concrete floor. His back’s arched in a painful angle—it would probably hurt if he could actually _feel_ anything—and his limbs are doing a bad impersonation of a starfish, but Theo still looks at him as if he were a piece of expensive merchandise that Theo was lucky enough to find.

Theo says Stiles’ name, lips shaping around the syllables in a way that makes Stiles’ breath catch.

Theo circles around him and Scott and offers Scott a truce, his eyes darting in Stiles’ direction after every other sentence, enough times that Stiles wishes he could move away from sight. 

The last thing Stiles catches before Theo leaves with his pack in tow is the clench of his jaw; tight, edged with anger and something else, darker. Stiles closes his eyes and doesn’t think about it, prefers not to risk Scott catching them.

Scott helps him up against the wall and tells him he still considers him part of the pack. Maybe he is, always will be, but it leaves a bad taste on his tongue, talking about it, and thinking about it is even worse. If Scott knew he’s fraternizing with the enemy, maybe they’d be having an entirely different conversation. 

(On the other hand, is Theo even really the enemy now?) 

It's almost nightfall when Scott walks him to his front door, a hand on the small of his back even though Stiles swears he’s fine to walk on his own. The sky is sliced with purple, dark clouds stirring near the falling sun when Stiles smiles and lets slip a muttered, “Thanks,” into the crisp evening air.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Scott says with a nod, and is gone before Stiles decides to open the door.

The house seems twice its size as he walks in. Dust has settled on the floor where his dad hasn’t been around, and hardwood creaks under his weight as he makes his way down the hall, his knees still weak beneath him.

The air is static enough that he hears the electricity of Theo’s breath before he reaches his room. It’s a guarded, cautious rasp, but it’s enough that Stiles chokes on a breath, the lump of it sticking to his throat like a knot growing just this side of too big. 

Theo raises an expectant eyebrow from his spot on Stiles’ desk, and the lump dissolves into an itch and Stiles swallows, throat relaxing. There’s a crackle in the air, a shift in atmosphere as he breathes out through his mouth and asks, “How’d you get in here?”

Theo clicks his tongue, looks up at Stiles from under his lashes, and promptly ignores the question, “So, you and Scott got back together.” Theo chuckles as if to fill the silence, mutters as he rises to his feet, “How convenient.”

Stiles shifts his feet, asks, “Theo, what are you doing here?” but doesn’t expect an answer. 

He knows it, Theo knows it; who is he trying to fool?

“Does that matter?” Theo says through a smirk, makes his way across the room until they’re chest to chest.

He leans forward but not forward enough, and Stiles moves without thinking, reaches behind him to slide the door shut as if it’ll isolate them from the world, keep their secret safe.

The door has barely closed before Stiles’ mouth is on Theo’s in an erratic kiss. Stiles finds the rhythm of it as Theo pushes him up against the door, hands around his waist, and places a hand on the back of Theo’s head. Theo opens his mouth, eager. Stiles’ self-control all but melts into it.

Theo’s hand on Stiles’ side turns into a death-grip as their rhythm falls apart, their gasps filling the space between them. Stiles shoves at Theo’s shirt until it finds a dark corner of his room. Theo dives into Stiles’ neck and forces his knee between Stiles’ thighs.

The sounds he makes fall between a wounded wolf and a starved one, and to no one’s surprise, they travel a path straight to Stiles’ dick. He feels the satisfied curve of Theo’s lips against his neck and considers making a sarcastic remark to keep Theo’s ego in check, but then Theo’s dropping to his knees and his mind draws a blank.

For a moment, he wishes he were drawing a line instead of helping Theo with his belt and then the button on his slacks, but the moment Theo’s mouth is on him—around him, hot and wet and perfect—he can’t say no.

(Can’t or won’t. Is there a difference?)

Theo’s done this before, Stiles has no doubt about that, and it makes his blood boil, even if it shouldn’t, jealousy uncoiling in his stomach like wildfire.

He reaches for Theo’s hair and tugs hard, knuckles white amid the perfectly arranged strands. Theo looks up at him with bright, watery eyes, his throat closing around Stiles’ cock as his hands find the back of Stiles’ thighs. Stiles fucks his mouth harder, feels Theo’s claws sinking in until they break skin. Stiles jerks Theo’s head back in retaliation. Theo smirks, swollen lips red and wet with spit, and Stiles pulls him up and kisses him again. 

Theo’s fluid, all muscle and repressed rage against Stiles, hands touching every inch of Stiles’ skin, exploring, ripping pieces of clothing apart. It’s not ideal, but more than forgiveness, or sanity, or clarity, or Scott, this is what does it for Stiles, what makes his mind quiet down, imperfect but whole.

“Theo,” Stiles breathes, in a never-ending loop, Theo’s name rolling on his tongue until it loses meaning.

They move seamlessly to Stiles’ bed, hands and fingers and mouths in a kind of synchronicity that’s only improved with practice.

Stiles’ gaze splays out over Theo’s naked body as they hit the mattress and Theo straddles his lap. He takes in the lines of Theo’s chest, the twitch of muscle under Theo’s skin. He swallows, has to, throat suddenly dry.

Theo doesn’t give him enough time to let his mind wander, capturing his mouth back into a bruising lock. Stiles tastes blood—his or Theo’s he doesn’t know, doesn’t care—and Theo chuckles into the kiss, dark and predatory, bites down onto Stiles’ lower lip.

Stiles arches into him when he seeks out Stiles’ neck, teeth and stubble bruising the skin bad enough that it’ll be hard to cover up later. Theo presses his hips down harder against Stiles’, his moans coming out in broken syllables at Stiles’ ear until he tenses then stills, his hand finding Stiles’ as he comes, fingers entwined in a painful grip.

He doesn’t let go and neither does Stiles as he makes his way down Stiles’ chest and takes Stiles into his mouth again. It isn’t long before Stiles follows him, riding out his orgasm inside Theo’s mouth until Theo swallows around him.

Theo moves up and away, and standing happens quicker than the thought passes through Stiles’ head. His fingers find Theo’s wrist and curl around it fast, tight. For a second, Stiles waits for Theo to unfold his clenched fist, but then Theo looks him in the eye.

Stiles fights the bitterness in his mouth, the urge to suddenly throw up in the carpet as adrenaline churns in his stomach, and leans in as far as Theo will let him.

Theo tastes like him and fear, like doubt, like he wants to push Stiles away but doesn’t—and Stiles lets the taste fade on his tongue as he pulls away.

“You can’t do this forever,” Theo says, his thumb coming up to touch Stiles’ bruised lip before he kisses Stiles again, more gentle than he should be allowed to be.

Theo’s right, he can’t. He can’t be with Theo _and_ be with Scott, be with his pack, if he wants to get out of this alive, but he doesn’t see himself outliving Beacon Hills. After everything, everyone they’ve lost, it’s not like they have the brightest future ahead.

(Scott would call him a pessimist, but is it pessimism if it’s true?)

“I don’t need to worry about forever,” he mutters, watches Theo’s eyes harden again. “Look, I get it, okay? You’re not exactly friendly—”

Theo gives him that trademark smirk, mentions, “This seems pretty friendly,” as he gestures between their naked bodies with a finger.

The _you know what I mean_ goes unsaid, or at least Stiles hopes so. 

Theo gives him a half-shrug and moves away, cleans up the sticky mess on his navel using the remnants of Stiles’ shirt and slides back into his jeans, sits across the room from Stiles. Stiles does a piss poor job of cleaning up before settling back onto his bed, boxers back on.

After a beat, Theo says, “You need my help.”

Stiles counters, “And you need Scott’s.” He wets his lips when Theo looks away, tries to get Theo’s attention back with a quiet, “I’m not stupid, alright?” and succeeds, adds, “I don’t know why, and I don’t want to, but you need our help as much as we need yours. You wouldn’t have offered Scott a truce if you didn’t.”

Theo makes a point of getting up and putting that ridiculously tight shirt back on, and Stiles would be annoyed by the gratuity of it if his body didn’t disagree with him. Theo’s lips stretch out into a smirk again and Stiles glances away and back, shakes his head.

“Scott’s getting Kira back tomorrow, and then we’re getting Lydia out of Eichen,” he says. “That’s where you come in.”

Theo scoffs. “You really think Scott’s going to let me help?”

“He doesn’t have to,” Stiles fires back. Theo’s his best bet right now, and he’s not letting Scott ruin this. “This is my call, alright?”

Theo watches him, his breathing loud in the room and louder as he takes one, two steps forward and crouches before Stiles’ bed, pulls Stiles in for a kiss. 

Against Stiles’ lips, he mutters, “Fine. It’s your call.”


End file.
